


When I envision you I think of your sheets tangled up beneath me

by oftirnanog



Series: I'll be a thorn in your side for always [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Multi, Polyamory, but it's actually one big poly pack, tagged sterek because the smut is sterek, with a healthy dose of scott/stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftirnanog/pseuds/oftirnanog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Stiles forgets that he’s not the only one hyper-attuned to each member of the pack; he forgets that they all more or less have a constant running tally in their heads of where everyone is and who’s missing when they’re all together like this, that they’re all always looking out for each other even in the little ways.</p><p>(Seriously the fluffiest polyamorous pack fic. The pack has a long night trying to track an omega. Stiles cooks them breakfast, after which he has sex with Derek in the kitchen. Pack cuddles ensue. They are actually the most codependent morons ever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I envision you I think of your sheets tangled up beneath me

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the inevitable tooth decay and the accidental Sterek. 
> 
> Title from Tegan and Sara's "Drove Me Wild"

Stiles is standing at the stove frying bacon when he feels hands on his hips and the soft press of lips against the skin of his shoulder. Hair tickles at the back of his neck, followed by the gentle scrape of teeth. _Erica._

“What’s for breakfast, Batman?” she asks, shifting so Stiles is caught in the loop of her arms and her chin is resting on his shoulder. “Smells good.”

“Bacon and eggs,” Stiles replies, letting himself lean back a bit into her warmth. “You want them scrambled or over-easy?”

“What if I want them poached?” she asks, and he can hear the fake pout she’s wearing. He turns his head to look at her because she does the puppy eyes almost as well as Scott, and it never fails to amuse him.

He chuckles. “If you want them to resemble eggs, then you don’t want them poached.”

She gives a dramatic sigh. “Fine.” Then she bites at his shoulder and unwinds herself from around his waist.

“Is there coffee?” Lydia’s voice scrapes out behind him.

“Not yet, sorry,” Stiles says. “I just put it on. Should be ready in a few.”

Lydia groans and Stiles turns in time to see her mash her scrunched up face into Erica’s shoulder. Her eye makeup is smudged around her eyes and she’s wearing an over-sized t-shirt that looks a lot like it belongs to Boyd. Her hair is still perfect though.

“You look rough,” Stiles comments before turning back to the bacon. “Weren’t you supposed to be tracking that omega at Jungle?”

“Wasn’t there,” says another voice that, sure enough, belongs to Boyd. “Lydia might’ve had a little too much fun after we called off the stakeout.”

Boyd winks at Stiles and lets his hand brush over the small of Stiles’ back as he walks past, but that fond smile is all for Lydia. He rests his hand on her shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. Erica’s hand has already worked its way into her hair, massaging her scalp, and she smiles up at Boyd, whispers, “Good morning,” as he leans down to kiss her, Lydia tucked carefully between them.

“You two go sit down,” Boyd says. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

“Everyone else still asleep?” Stiles asks.

He knows Isaac is around somewhere—probably still in bed where he’d left him—because he and Stiles had been tasked with standby duty, which basically translates into being the back-up plan. These days it usually translates into marathoning something on TV and falling asleep on the couch. They’ve gotten into a pretty good rhythm of rotating when it comes to dealing with the supernatural these days and even better at dealing with things effectively. It helps that their lives calmed down enough for them to actually work out a pseudo-schedule, one that ensures none of them are being run into the ground. Now that most of them are also balancing college with their nightly adventures, it’s been useful.

Derek, oddly enough, has become enforcer of the schedule, always keeping an eye to make sure everyone’s getting the break that they need, always on their tails (ha) to make sure they go to class. He even goes to so far as to make sure they’re all eating, which frequently involves packing them lunches.

It helps that they’re all living together in what is essentially a giant frat house.

“I don’t even think the rest of them came home last night,” Boyd says. He has his phone out, scrolling through it as he leans against the counter beside Stiles. “Scott insisted on scoping out some nearby areas. They said they’d let us know if they picked up a trail, but there’s nothing here.”

Stiles frowns. It’s not like Scott to not check in. It’s not like any of them to not check in, if he’s being honest, but especially Scott. Derek too. Allison and Kira have a greater tendency to forget these things, but never if it’s an emergency.

“You think they’re okay,” Stiles says. It’s not a question. If Boyd were worried they’d be out the door by now.

Stiles transfers the bacon to a plate and starts cracking eggs into a bowl.

“They probably fell asleep in Derek’s car,” Boyd says, snatching a piece of bacon off the plate.

“Hey,” Stiles chastises, brandishing an eggy fork at Boyd’s hand. “Wait for the eggs.”

Boyd smiles and then makes exaggerated groaning noises as he takes a bite of the bacon. Stiles huffs and turns back to stove, ignoring the delight on Boyd’s face that means he can totally hear the way Stiles’ heart rate just kicked up a notch, and can probably smell the spike of arousal, fucking werewolves. But what does Boyd expect when he’s making sounds like that? He probably did it on purpose. Asshole.

Mercifully, Stiles is saved by the beep of the coffee machine.

“Go take your girlfriends some coffee,” he grouches.

“Your girlfriends too,” Boyd hums, but he grabs some mugs out of the cupboard anyway.

Stiles is about to retort with something about his making breakfast and how he started the coffee, so the least Boyd can do is pour it, but then they hear the front door open and thudding footsteps, followed by a crash that’s probably Scott knocking over the coat rack. It’s a terrible coat rack. They really ought to get rid of it. Or at least add more weight to the bottom of it.

Stiles and Boyd raise their eyebrows at each other and a moment later Derek, Scott, Kira, and Allison all come tumbling into the kitchen.

“Oh my god, bacon!” Kira says, eyes going wide as she descends on the plate like a ravenous animal.

“Hey!” Stiles protests, but it’s too late. She’s already grabbed the whole plate and is holding it out so Scott, Allison, and Derek can help themselves. “There’s supposed to be eggs to go with that!”

“We can still have eggs,” Scott insists through a mouthful, spraying tiny bits of bacon, one of which lands on Stiles’ face. Scott swallows and gives him a sheepish look, reaching out to brush the bacon bit off Stiles’ face. “Sorry.”

Stiles just rolls his eyes. Cooking for the pack inevitably means that every dish will be picked at before it’s served.

“Please tell me that’s coffee I smell,” Allison says, making a beeline for the pot.

Stiles sighs and Boyd shrugs at him, but not before setting a mug next to Stiles, with enough milk in it to have reduced it to a light brown, just the way he likes it. Stiles quirks a grin at him and Boyd nods before backing out of the kitchen with two more mugs in hand.

“Do you want help with that?” Scott asks, leaning over Stiles’ shoulder.

“Can you just grab some plates?” Stiles asks, pulling the pan off the burner. “So what happened last night anyway?” he asks.

“We were trying to pick up the omega’s trail when we didn’t have any success at Jungle,” Derek says. “We thought we were on to something at the edge of the preserve, but nothing came up.” He pauses, takes the cup of coffee Allison is offering, then says, “We, uh, kind of fell asleep in the car.”

“I told you!” comes Boyd’s voice from the other room, followed by a muffled groan of protest from Lydia and a chuckle from Erica.

“I’ve got this,” Scott says, batting Stiles’ hand away as he tries to transfer eggs onto the plates. “You heard Derek. We slept. I’m not even tired. You made us bacon and eggs and coffee. Get outta here.” He grins at Stiles and then nudges his nose against Stiles’ temple, murmuring, “Besides. If I know you, you probably didn’t sleep at all,” before brushing his lips gently against his cheek.

And that’s not really something Stiles can argue with so he lets Scott move him out of the way, hand light on his hip, and takes his mug when Scott hands it to him. Scott brushes his thumb under the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt and then pulls his hand away to start dishing out the eggs.

“Is there any bacon left for Isaac?” Stiles asks, because he can’t see any and Isaac’s going to be upset he missed the bacon if he wakes up and it’s gone.

“Did I hear bacon for Isaac?”

A sleep-rumpled Isaac appears in the doorway, his curls mussed on one side and pressed flat on the other from where he was sleeping on them.

“Right here,” Allison says, handing him a plate with both bacon and eggs on it. Sometimes Stiles forgets that he’s not the only one hyper-attuned to each member of the pack; he forgets that they all more or less have a constant running tally in their heads of where everyone is and who’s missing when they’re all together like this, that they’re all always looking out for each other even in the little ways. “I have to make more coffee though,” she adds.

“So is the omega gone then, do you think?” Isaac asks, scooping up eggs with a particularly crisp piece of bacon in the absence of a fork.

“It looks that way,” Scott says. “We’ll stay alert. Keep an eye out for anything unusual. But it seems like he’s moved on. Nothing to worry about.”

“C’mon, man, don’t jinx it,” Stiles says, taking the plate Scott is handing him and fishing a fork out of the drawer.

“What?” Scott protests. “It’s fine.” He has that expression on his face that he gets when he feels someone’s being unfair. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t so endearing.

“I’m actually with Stiles on this one,” Allison says.

“Me too,” Kira chimes in.

“Yeah, sorry Scott,” Isaac says.

Scott shoots an imploring look at Derek, who shrugs and almost looks apologetic, which is whole other world of endearing. Stiles throws Scott a smug grin and takes a satisfied bite of scrambled eggs.

“Whatever,” Scott mutters. “Sorry for being optimistic.”

“Never apologize for being optimistic,” Stiles says, bumping his hip against Scott. “Someone needs to keep up the optimism around here. None of the rest of us is any good at it.”

“Except Kira,” Allison offers, giving her a playful pinch above her hip.

Kira gives a little shrug and tilts her head against Allison’s shoulder. “I know we slept in the car,” she says around a yawn, “but I’m exhausted.”

“Me too,” Allison sighs. She brings her arm up around Kira’s shoulder and turns to rest her chin on the top of Kira’s head. “I say we join the cuddle pile that has inevitably formed in the living room.”

Kira makes a soft noise of agreement and rests her weight against Allison as she leads her out of the kitchen, stumbling a bit in her unwillingness to move from Allison’s side.

“Coming?” Allison asks, glancing back at them, but training her eyes on Isaac and then Scott. They haven’t had a lot of time together lately.

Isaac drops his plate in the sink and reaches out to take the hand that’s Allison’s offering, the one that’s not looped around Kira’s waist. Scott gives them one of the fondest looks Stiles has ever seen. It’s a look Stiles has had directed at himself on more than one occasion. It’s a look he probably has on his own face right now, watching Scott, and when he looks up he sees that Derek is actually looking at _him_ that way, so they’re all of them standing in the kitchen like a bunch of sappy fond morons.

It’s really and truly ridiculous, and for a moment it takes Stiles’ breath away, watching them all in the kitchen, knowing Boyd and Erica can hear them in the room over, knowing that Lydia trusts them enough to sleep through what is more or less a debrief. And that’s always what hits Stiles the hardest—the unspoken trust that’s formed between them after all these years. It makes something ache in his chest.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Scott says, as he watches Isaac, Kira, and Allison disappear around the corner. Then he turns to Stiles, “You should get some sleep too,” he says, slipping a finger under the waistband of Stiles’ sweatpants and tugging him closer.

Stiles takes a step forward and drops his head to rest on Scott’s shoulder, linking his fingers together at the small of Scott’s back. He takes a deep breath, inhaling _Scott_ , who smells like earth, and fabric softener, and a little salty like sweat if he’s being honest, but mostly he just smells like home. Behind him Derek is moving at the sink, clanking dishes and cutlery together, and running water to fill the sink.

Scott tucks his face into Stiles’ hair, nuzzling a bit—scent marking, probably, the weirdo—and rubs his hands all over Stiles’ back. Stiles tugs himself closer to Scott, almost without realizing it, and presses his lips against Scott’s neck. Scott hums with contentment in response and Stiles grins against his skin, pulls back so he can look at Scott’s face.

“Get in there,” Stiles says, nodding his head towards the doorway.

Scott frowns, “Aren’t you coming?”

Stiles glances back at Derek and says, “In a bit.”

Scott shakes his head a bit, but he’s smiling, and he follows it up with an obscene gesture involving his tongue in the side of his cheek. Stiles wrinkles his nose and gives him a smack on the side of his head. “Get out of here,” he says, swatting at Scott’s ass as he disentangles himself to join everyone else.

Stiles rolls his eyes as Scott makes his way out the kitchen and then grabs the dish towel to start drying the dishes.

“You don’t have to do that,” Derek says. “I was just going to let them dry on the rack.”

“I know,” Stiles says. “I’m going to do it anyway, though.” He opens one of the cupboards to start putting the plates away. “I feel like I never see you anymore.”

“Because you always have class,” Derek says, handing Stiles’ a dripping wet glass.

“Yeah, who’s idea was it to go to college anyway?” Stiles jokes.

“You’re enjoying it though, right?” Derek asks with a frown. Leave it to Derek to take Stiles too seriously because he cares too much.

Stiles snorts a bit and tugs Derek towards him with two fingers hooked through his belt loop. “I’m not just there because I think I should be, if that’s what you’re asking,” Stiles says. “And I like my classes. They’re interesting. I don’t necessarily love all the assignments or exams or even some of my profs, but overall it’s good.”

Derek nods, staring down at the dishcloth he’s twisting in his hands. “Good,” he says.

Stiles cocks his head to the side, trying to catch Derek’s eye. “Hey,” Stiles says, when Derek keeps his eyes trained emphatically away from Stiles. “What’s up?”

Derek looks up at him and Stiles finds he can’t decipher the expression on his face, which is disconcerting because Stiles considers himself something of an expert in the many facial expressions of Derek Hale. “Sometimes I don’t know why you stay,” Derek admits.

Stiles surges forward and kisses him. He kisses him because, well, because he wants to, and because it’s been weeks since he’s kissed Derek like this, kissed him in a more-than-perfunctory-peck-on-the-lips kind of way because they’ve been _busy_ lately, in the way that you kind of lose track of, that you kind of don’t even notice until you have a chance to stop and breath and _think_ for a change, and maybe he hadn’t noticed until just now that he _misses_ Derek even though they’re in each other’s space constantly. But he also kisses him because he doesn’t know how to explain to Derek why he stays, doesn’t know if he can put into words all the reasons he wants to be here, doesn’t know how to explain how much he loves the feeling of Erica’s wavy hair tickling across his skin, how comforting it is when Lydia tucks her feet under his legs when they sit on the couch together, or when Scott sprawls out next him in bed, a long line of heat against his back. He doesn’t know if he can articulate the way Boyd’s mellow voice sounds like home or the way Allison’s laugh has the ability to completely turn his day around. He stays because of the way Isaac smirks when he says something sarcastic and the way Kira still looks at him in disbelief when he says something off-colour, like she still isn’t used to it, like they’ll continue surprising each other until the day they die. He doesn’t know how to tell Derek that he sometimes wears his sweaters when he’s cold because they smell like him, that after Scott it’s always _Derek_ he thinks of next when he has a funny story to tell or a complaint to make or when he just wants to curl up against someone and not talk. He doesn’t know how to say that out of all of them, even Scott, Derek is probably the one who understands him best.

So Stiles kisses him instead, plunges into Derek’s mouth like he might be able to say all of this by using his tongue in a different way, digs his hands into Derek’s back as he tugs him closer trying to press an explanation into his skin with his fingertips, like he might be able to transfer all of the myriad, complex reasons through osmosis. Derek makes a desperate noise of relief and Stiles swallows it. He tilts his hips forward and grinds Derek against the counter. Derek brings his hands up to grab at Stiles’ hair and soaks him with dishwater and soapsuds. The water drips down Stiles’ neck and back making him shiver against Derek, but he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to muster any concern over a little bit of water when Derek’s bucking against him, the hard line of his dick under denim pressing against Stiles’ through the much thinner fabric of his sweatpants.

Derek drags his hands over Stiles’ shoulders, down his back and shoves them, still damp, down the back of Stiles’ pants to grab at his ass. He pushes a finger between his cheeks, rubbing over Stiles’ hole, catching at the rim. Stiles gasps and pulls his hips back enough to unbuckle Derek’s belt and undo his jeans. He kisses along Derek’s jaw, dragging his teeth over stubble and sucking a mark into the soft skin of his neck, a mark that disappears almost as soon as Stiles makes it. Derek growls in response, a low rumble in his chest that is only just on the side of not-human, a bit too ragged to be completely supernatural.

Stiles shoves Derek’s pants down far enough to free his dick from the confines of his boxers, to let it curve, red and leaking, against his stomach. He gives him a few quick tugs, smearing precome over the head with his thumb, and then untucks his own dick from his sweatpants, which Derek has already pushed past his hips. Derek pulls Stiles forwards, trapping Stile’s hand between them and sliding their dicks together.

“Fuck,” Stiles grunts. “Derek.”

He manages to get his hand around both of them, giving them added heat and pressure to thrust into. Derek continues rubbing the pad of his finger in circles around Stiles’ hole and Stiles feels like every cell in his body is vibrating, like his too-tight skin might dissolve at any moment and leave him in a boneless pile on the floor.

“Stiles,” Derek chokes, pressing their foreheads together and trying to kiss him. They mostly end up breathing into each other’s mouths and Stiles’ free hand clutches at Derek’s bicep, giving him something to hold onto, something to keep him upright as they move against each other, losing rhythm in their desperation to be _closer._

Then Derek presses his finger just hard enough that he slides in to the first knuckle and Stiles’ whole body goes rigid as he comes in hot ropes over his hand and both their stomachs. Derek grunts and thrusts, once, twice more before he’s also spilling between them, adding to the sticky mess that’s already seeping into the fabric of their shirts.

Stiles flinches and his dick twitches when Derek pulls his finger out, rubs gently over his hole, almost soothing. Stiles’ legs feel like jelly and he’s fairly certain that Derek’s arm around his waist is the only thing keeping him from sliding to the floor. Their faces are still mashed together and Derek’s hot breath is ghosting over Stiles’ chin. Stiles manages to gather himself enough to kiss him, mouth hot, but less desperate. Derek responds by cupping a hand at the back of Stiles’ skull and sucking on his bottom lip. Stiles’ hair is still wet, but he’s not sure if that’s from the dishwater or if it’s sweat or some combination thereof.

“Hi,” Stiles says when Derek pulls his head back enough to look at him, and the way Derek beams at him in response is so fucking perfect that Stiles has to kiss him again.

“Hi yourself,” Derek says, as he nudges his nose against Stiles’.

Stiles wipes his hand on his t-shirt because it’s a mess already anyway. He looks down between them and sees that they’ve stained both their paints as well. “We need to change,” he says.

Derek chuckles and presses a kiss to Stiles’ neck, mutters, “Yeah,” into his skin.

“Did you really have to do that in the kitchen?” Scott calls from the other room.

Stiles and Derek both laugh, shaking with it as they both hang on to each other to stay upright, and Stiles can’t help but be grateful that Scott waited until they’d finished to say something about it.

“Are they having sex?” Allison asks, her voice coming through much quieter.

“Not anymore,” Erica responds. Stiles can hear her smirking.

“Eavesdropping perverts!” Stiles shouts at them.

“You’re the ones who just had sex in the place we cook our food,” Isaac retorts, but true to form he manages to sound bored while saying it.

Stiles rolls his eyes and Derek laughs harder, dropping his forehead to Stiles shoulder so Stiles’ entire body vibrates with it. Then his thumb brushes over Stiles’ hip and drags through a cooling patch of come. He makes a sound of distaste and straightens up as he wipes his hand off on Stiles’ sweatpants, which are still bunched under his ass. Stiles pulls them all the way up as he steps back from Derek, who’s own pants are still shoved midway down his thighs. His dick is hanging soft against the waistband of his boxers and between the two of the them they paint a hilariously debauched picture.

“I’m going to change,” Stiles says.

“Here,” Derek says, and he drops his pants the rest of the way and pulls off his t-shirt so he’s standing in front of the sink wearing nothing but his socks. “Can you grab my sweatpants and a clean shirt?”

“Sure thing,” Stiles says, taking a moment to give Derek a thorough once-over.

Derek rolls his eyes, but the colour in his face rises so Stiles is going to count it as a victory. He bites his bottom lip and winks at Derek, swats at his bare ass with his filthy shirt and then saunters away.

“Go put some clean clothes on,” Derek shouts at his retreating back.

Stiles chuckles to himself as he takes the stairs two at a time. By the time he gets back downstairs with Derek’s clothes in hand, Derek has finished washing the dishes and is pouring them each a glass of water. He looks like a bit of a dork standing there in nothing but his socks, even though he has the muscles of a Greek god. It probably doesn’t help that the socks reach all the way up to his calves.

“You look like a dork,” Stiles tells him as he hands him the clothes.

“You love it,” Derek says, and, well, Stiles can’t really deny that, can he? Then Derek frowns at the sweatpants and asks, “Aren’t these Scott’s?”

Stiles shrugs, “I couldn’t find yours.” He didn’t actually think Derek would notice.

“You mean these were already in your room and you didn’t feel like looking for mine?” Derek corrects because he knows Stiles too well.

Stiles grins at him and makes his way into the living room. Erica is nestled against Boyd on the loveseat with Lydia’s head in her lap, fingers stroking through her hair. Allison and Kira have somehow managed to squeeze themselves into the wingback chair together, so entangled it’s difficult to tell who’s limbs belong to who. Isaac is seated on the floor with his back to the chair, his head resting against both of them and Allison’s fingers scratching at his scalp. Scott is curled at the corner of the couch that’s nearest the rest of them, but he’s by himself so Stiles crawls over beside him, mostly on top of him, nuzzling into his neck.

“And you say I’m like a dog,” Scott says, tugging on Stiles’ hair when he starts snuffling just to be an idiot.

Scott shakes his head, smiling fond as anything, and Stiles arranges himself so there’s room for Derek beside them. He drapes his legs over Derek’s lap as soon as he sits down and Derek gets a hand under the fabric of his pajama bottoms to rub at his calf. Derek settles back into the couch and tilts his head to look at Stiles.

Stiles gives him a small, soft smile. “This is why,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> So there's probably going to be more where this came from because I have a lot of thoughts about who is actually sleeping with whom, and the pairings that would more accurately fall under the category of romantic friendship, or the fact that Derek is only having sex with Stiles and Scott (with very rare exceptions), and the extent of their ridiculous codependency, and about Derek being the mom-est pack mom ever, and how Stiles and Allison have so many classes together, and all the mini rotating pairs and triads that form between them. 
> 
> This will likely appear in the form of tumblr bedtime-story not!fic, so if you feel like this fic hasn't caused enough tooth rot, I'm also oftirnanog on tumblr. I make no promises regarding the frequency of said not!fic, but I'm open to prompts/questions about my headcanon for this little 'verse.


End file.
